Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash,

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash:

He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound,

Stretched by a dextrous sleight along the ground.

"Demand thy life!" He answered not: and then

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again,

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew

Almost to blackness in its demon hue;[281]

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 720

Than when his foe's was levelled at his brow;

Then all was stern collectedness and art,

Now rose the unleavened hatred of his heart;

So little sparing to the foe he felled,[kj]

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld,

He almost turned the thirsty point on those

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose;

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent;

Yet looked he on him still with eye intent,

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 730

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life;

As if to search how far the wound he gave

Had sent its victim onward to his grave.